The Girl from District Two
by thegreatmelanie
Summary: All of Panem views her as a ruthless killer: cool, calculated, and practiced. But what if she was something more? A one-shot story from Clove's point of view at the time of her death. Please R&R!


_Finally_.

My moment of triumph has come at last. This isn't the same as the other tributes I've killed, the ones who were weak and worthless and didn't even bother to put up a fight. She's different. Katniss is smart and quick, good with her bow, and feisty enough to have made it this far. She seems to know everything about the forest, and she's able to climb a tree faster and higher than even Cato.

But now I've got her. She's _my_ prey now.

Katniss is running, as quick and blissfully unaware as a rabbit. I can tell by the way she sprints and keeps looking around that she's worried, but she doesn't know who the hunter is yet. I see her dart towards the tiny orange backpack with the number _12_ on it just before I throw my knife.

It slices through the air, light but lethal. I'm aiming for her shoulder, but Katniss notices it and at the last moment deflects it with her bow. It bounces harmlessly off, but not before chipping off some of the wood.

She turns, raising her bow and shooting. I'm somewhat proud of the fact that she seems unsurprised when she sees me. I'm better than the others: better than Marvel and Coral and Glimmer, the girl that Cato used to toy with the affections of. But they're dead now, and I've proven my worth.

I dart sideways, making the arrow miss my heart, but it still hits me in the shoulder. The blow stings, but I'm used to pain. Still, I pull it out and examine the wound. Luckily, the arrow didn't penetrate very deep. With a little of the medicine Cato and I have gathered from sponsors, it should heal in a couple of days. Hopefully, we'll have even won the Games by then.

Katniss scrambles to get the small orange backpack on her arm. Her bow is already ready with another arrow when she turns, but I throw before she can fire another shot. The knife skims past her forehead when she ducks down, leaving a thin red line of blood that drips down her face and into her mouth and eyes.

Katniss fires anyway, but this time the arrow misses by a mile. I run towards her, slamming into Katniss's shoulder and pushing her backwards. She tumbles helplessly to the ground, still trying to wipe the blood from her eyes. It's embarrassingly easy for me to tackle and pin her to the ground even though I'm almost half her size.

She screams, though I don't know what for. Who would help her? The girl with the red hair from District Five? Cato? Her dead lover? The thought sends another splinter of rage racing up my spine. Oh yes, the star-crossed lovers of District Twelve. It seems fitting that Cato should kill Peeta and I Katniss—after all, I'm the only real star-crossed lover here.

They were so _transparent_. It was bad enough that they claimed they were in love with one another, but then everyone seemed to believe it. It was the only reason they got sponsors, probably the only reason they've even gotten this far.

I've been in love with Cato since I was twelve, and I didn't even get to let him know before I was forced into this death arena. But I'm not going down without a fight. Cato and I—we're going to win the Hunger Games as the first two victors ever.

"Where's your boyfriend, District Twelve?" I ask, teasing her. I want this to last. I want her to feel my pain. "Still hanging on?"

She makes a sound that's somewhere between a grunt of pain and a snarl. Her dark eyes are bright and as alert as ever, but I can see the thread of fear in them. Katniss knows she's outmatched. I've been playing with knives since I was three, and I haven't cut myself since I was four. My parents, who are victors themselves, practically raised me to win these games. They were so proud when my name was reaped. My mother even began to cry, weeping tears of joy. My brother had already won the Games a few years back, and now we could be a whole family of victors.

"He's out there now. Hunting Cato," Katniss hisses, narrowing her eyes into slits. A small smile plays in her lips. She's lying—I'm sure of it—but then she yells, "Peeta!"

Her act is so convincing, so seemingly real, that I have to look around and check to make sure she's not actually telling the truth. My eyes scan the trees, searching every small gap and the branches just like I was taught to. Even after I check, I half-expect Peeta to come limping-out from under the canopy of trees, waving the axe that that stupid District Three boy lost a few days ago.

When he doesn't come, I turn back, smirking, and slam my fist into her throat. It shuts her up. The simper that was there moments before has vanished from her face. That must have been her only trick, her only attempt at living longer. Now she's as good as dead.

"Liar. He's nearly dead. Cato knows where he cut him." I saw Cato do it too; he just lunged and swiped the knife through the air, as if it was just a deadly extension of his arms. I know how he feels. Weapons are natural in our hands. "You've probably got him strapped up in some tree while you try to keep his heart going. What's in the pretty little backpack?" I lift one hand to gesture at the small orange backpack Katniss was holding moments before. It lies, abandoned, on the ground. "The medicine for Lover Boy? Too bad he'll never get it."

I expect Katniss to roar with anger at this remark, but she just lies there, panting and bleeding out onto the grass. I'm almost disappointed she's not putting up much of a fight. Katniss is two years older than me, and with that pretty eleven the Gamemakers gave her, I thought she would be something. It's such a let-down that she's proving to be just like the others I've killed.

Maybe… I open my jacket and select one of the knives I've been carrying. It has a curved blade, and it's more delicate than a throwing knife. I haven't had an excuse to use it yet. Maybe if I give Katniss some pain before her death, she'll at least struggle a little. For her poor baby sister back at home, who's probably watching as we speak. Or better yet—maybe Peeta will stumble out here in a failing attempt to save her when he hears her screams.

"I promised Cato if he let me have you, I'd give the audience a good show."

It was a struggle convincing Cato to let me kill Katniss. He doesn't like to be shown up, and he's gotten into multiple fights for it. Katniss has embarrassed him multiple times already in the Games. He wanted to be the one to kill her so bad.

But this is personal to me now.

Katniss is squirming beneath me, trying desperately to push me off. I'm small and light—only one hundred pounds—but I know where to place my weight to make myself heavy. There's no way Katniss can move me. Besides, my grip on her would be impossible to break.

"Forget it, District Twelve. We're going to kill you." A new thought comes to my mind, a way to make her burn mentally instead of physically. A smile tugs at my lips. "Just like we did your pathetic little ally… what was her name? Rue? Well, first Rue, then you, and then I think we'll just let nature take care of Lover Boy. How does that sound?" I demand. "Now, where to start?"

I wipe away the blood from the cut I gave her on her face. It's sad to think that I've missed my intended target three times with little Katniss. Once, when she was initially running away from the Cornucopia; it hit her ridiculous orange backpack instead. And twice today. I almost never miss, but somehow Katniss is quick-thinking and agile enough to escape my blows.

Teasingly, I tilt her face from side to side, as if I'm one of those silly beauticians back home trying to decide how best to paint my victim's face. Only instead of a makeup wand, I will be using a knife. It's silly, I know, but the terror in Katniss's face is worth it. I want her to know who is in power. I want her last moments to involve her groveling at my feet.

Strong, noble Katniss who volunteered as tribute instead of sending her twelve-year-old sister in. The Gamemakers' favorite who they gave an eleven. Katniss, just like a little girl with her pretty flaming dresses, beautiful with the amount of makeup her stylists slathered onto her face. I narrow my eyes, remembering. Well she's not so pretty now.

She tries to bite my hand, snapping her teeth at me viciously. Startled, I flinch, then yank her hair—and her head—easily back to the ground.

"I think… I think I'll start with your mouth."

I trace the outline of her lips with her knife. Katniss is wide-eyed, but she's not flinching away. Perhaps she is something, after all.

"Yes, I don't think you'll have much use for your lips anymore. Want to blow Loverboy one last kiss?

She spits at me what seems to be a mixture of blood and saliva, and I almost want to laugh. Is that her one last show of defiance? At least it's something and not nothing. But I can't let her know any of this. Instead, I glare at her.

"All right then. Let's get started."

I'm about to begin cutting when something—or more accurately, _somebody_ —yanks me off her. For a moment, I'm weightless. The feeling is exhilarating, but then I feel the terror that quickly follows. There's only one person who's this strong in the arena. The boy from District Eleven, the one that Cato and I have been attempting—and failing—to kill.

District Eleven holds me at arm's length, and though I struggle, there's no escaping his hold. He's at least a foot taller than me, and over one hundred pounds heavier. Suddenly, I'm the prey and he's the predator.

He throws me to the ground, easily tossing me around like I weigh nothing more than a cat. He starts shouting at me. "What'd you do to that little girl? You kill her?"

Did he over hear me taunting Katniss about Rue? Is that why he's here? Besides their dark skin and dark features, the two from District Eleven didn't look much like alike, but maybe they knew each other back home. I feel light-headed all of a sudden. Now he's angry, and he's going to kill me.

I scramble backwards, still on the ground, desperately hoping that something will divide District Eleven's attention. If only I can redirect him to Katniss… then I can get away. I can still win and go home with Cato. "No! No, it wasn't me!"

"You said her name. I heard you. You kill her? You cut her up like you were going to cut up this girl here?" District Eleven's voice has steadily risen from his shout to a lion's roar.

I have to explain—I _need_ to explain—but there's no time. If I don't speak fast, he's going to kill me. I'm not sadistic, not really. I would never kill anyone but Katniss like this. The other tributes were dead the moment I threw a knife into their back. It's Cato who really likes the kill; he like the rush he gets when he kills them.

"No! No I—" And then I see what District Eleven is holding in his hand: a medium-sized rock. It's not much, but combined with his strength, it will be an easy weapon for District Eleven. Suddenly, I know how he plans to kill me. I scream. "Cato! Cato!"

Half of me wonders where he is, but the other half knows. He is busy trying to find that stupid redhead from District Five. She's been evading us for the past few days, somehow managing to both steal our supplies and escape without us ever seeing her. When we heard of the Gamemakers' plans for a Feast for us, Cato and I adopted a plan that involved me killing Katniss while he took down District Five. Stupidly, we forgot about District Eleven.

"Clove!" Cato's voice is desperate—can he hear the terror in mine?—and it only brings on more hysteria. Cato, who hasn't been scared once in these Games, sounds terrified.

District Eleven raises the rock he has been holding, and time seems to speed up. The rock turns into a grey blur as he brings it down hard on my skull.

Pain flares in my head. Black and white spots flash, and I choke out another scream. I can hear my own heart beat pounding in my head, a dull but fast drum. Every beat is like a new tremor of pain. My body is on fire. I can hardly breathe the pain is so hot. There's no going back now. It's hard to even think.

I'm going to die, I'm going to die, I'm going to die.

I can hear District Eleven and Katniss talking, but I can't make out the words. It's only the strange muffled sound of voices. I moan, wanting to drag District Eleven's attention back to me. Why can't he just finish me off? The agony is excruciating.

"CLOVE!" Through the dimness, I hear Cato's voice. Where is he? He sounds closer, and panicked. I don't want him to see me like this, especially when there is no hope of him saving me.

District Eleven releases Katniss. He does not kill her. Instead, he drops her and sprints to where the remaining two backpacks are. He takes both. Our hope for food, our only hope for survival, is gone. After our food supply mysteriously blew up, we lost our only defense against starvation. The sponsors have been sending us food occasionally, but with it being so late into the Games, everything is expensive. It hasn't been enough. Cato and I are slowly but surely starving.

"CLOVE! CLOVE!" I see him now, a bright light in the darkness. He's panting, sweat dripping from his forehead, but to me he's never looked so beautiful.

I start to cry. I don't want to, but the tears spill from my eyes anyway. I wanted to win so, so badly with Cato. When the Gamemakers announced two tributes could win, it was as if my world exploded into a final fit of glory. We had the best chances too. We were the only two tributes from a district, besides Katniss and her crippled lover. Every odd was stacked in our favor.

Cato is saying something. I try to pay attention, I really do, but the buzzing in my ears is deafening. It's a struggle to make out single words, much less entire sentences. The pain has dulled significantly, and I know that I am going into shock. My entire body feels numb. They say that if you go into shock in the Games, you're a goner for sure.

In the next moment, Cato is shaking me. I must have blacked out. He's saying my name repeatedly, and while he is gentle, he is still rougher than I would like. A headache explodes in my head, loud and furious.

"Cato," I choke out, trying to clear the excess sound. He squeezes my hand, but I still feel nothing. "Did we get her?"

Confusion crosses Cato's perfect features. "Who?"

"The girl. District Five." I can barely move my mouth.

Cato hesitates for a moment, then leans forward, smoothing back my tangled hair from my face. "Yeah. Yeah, we did."

"That's good right?"

Cato is crying now too. Tears well in his eyes and trickle down his face. Everything is starting to get harder to understand. Why is he crying? I've never seen Cato cry before.

"It's great. Now we only have District Twelve and the boy from District Eleven."

For a moment, I'm confused. What are we talking about? Where are we? My thoughts are falling apart, and I'm unsure of everything. Then I remember. "Are we gonna win, Cato?" My words are slurring, but I can't help it. It's difficult to even speak at all.

"Yeah. Of course, Clove. Just… hang on, okay?"

"District Eleven… he has our backpack."

"I know. But that doesn't matter right now, Clove. We'll get it later from him. Together. Then we'll only have Katniss to worry about."

"I'm hungry."

"I know. That's why we need to get our backpack later."

Backpack? What is he talking about? A new flash of pain races through my body, splintering the numbness. I whimper.

"It hurts."

Cato's gaze flickers upward to my head, and his expression is pained. I don't know what he's looking at. He's seen me a thousand times, but he's never looked at me this way before.

I follow his gaze with my hand, reaching up with a growing sense of dread. The slightest touch makes me feel dizzy with pain, but I feel what he's looking at. My head isn't warm and sticky with blood, but I can feel the dent in my skull. District Eleven's blow was strong and true, and it's a miracle that I haven't already died.

Cato pulls my hand gently away from my head. "I know, baby. Just close your eyes, okay? When you wake up tomorrow, you'll feel better."

Cato has never lied to me before, so I don't know why I don't trust him. Something about him seems different though. He doesn't seem strong anymore. It's as if some part of him has split apart from his body and is dying. No, it's as if some part of him has already died.

"I don't want to sleep." I remember again why we're here, why it hurts so much. I begin to sob. "I don't want to die."

"You're not going to. We're going to win remember?"

"I don't want to die."

"You're not going to," Cato insists, this time more forcefully.

"Yes, I am," I say, hopelessly. I look away, focusing on the bright light of the sun. Everything seems so beautiful. How have I never noticed this before? "Promise me you'll try to win still."

Cato nods, squeezing my hand again.

"Kill District Eleven first, okay? He has our backpack?" He nods again. What I don't say is that if Cato doesn't win, I want Katniss to. Even though I hate her, I know she has her little sister to go home to. If she dies, there will be people to miss her.

"Cato, I—I love you."

"I love you too, baby."

He doesn't understand. He has his pretty little girlfriend back at home, but I've loved him forever. That's the only reason I've never dated any boy back in District Two. Cato's my best friend. I only want to spend the rest of my life with _him_. Ever since I was five and first met him, I've known this.

"No, I _love_ you."

Cato begins to cry harder. "I love you too. Clove, don't leave, okay? I can't win this without you. You're my everything. I need you, Clove."

"What about—?" My voice trembles precariously. "What about Glimmer?"

"Glimmer?" He echoes my words numbly. "She was okay, I guess. But I didn't love her." He looks to the side bitterly. "And it wouldn't have worked out, anyway."

"Is that why you didn't save her?"

"No." Cato swallows hard. "I mean, partially. I had to make sure you were safe first. I had to choose. And I chose you."

The memory comes racing back: seeing the tracker-jacker nest falling first, screaming a warning to the others, and then taking off. I'm fast, but since my legs are short and I have bad endurance, it didn't take long for me to fall to the back of the pack and the tracker-jackers to catch up. Once they began stinging, I couldn't even run anymore. Everything started to fall apart.

Then, through the thickening haze, Cato had come racing back, tearing at full speed back to the danger. He had scooped me up easily, before sprinting away towards the lake again. With a little of the medicine we had gotten, the wounds had healed easily, but if Cato hadn't come, I would have died back there.

"Hold on. Just a little while longer, okay Clove? Then… then I can carry you back to our camp, and use a little of the medicine we have to fix your head." I know Cato's lying—both to me and himself. The medicine we have is for injuries to the skin, like burns and cuts. It won't fix a caved-in skull and damaged brains. "Don't let go. Don't let go, baby."

"I can't hold on much longer. It hurts too much."

Cato doesn't say anything for a moment; he just looks at me with eyes that are sad and wet with tears. I can tell that he wants to argue with me, to tell me that I _have_ to pull through. He doesn't though. Instead he tells me in a voice that's incredibly fragile and small, "That's okay too." He leans down, cradling my body in his arms, and presses his lips gently to mine. Doesn't he know he's kissing a corpse?

They say that when you die, your life flashes before your life. As I slip in and out of consciousness, important scenes and moments play out before me.

I'm five. I'm new to school; this is the first year District Two citizens begin learning academics and preparing for the Games. My parents have taught me everything I need to know at home, though, and it's hard to pay attention in classes. I squirm as the teacher begins to read to us a ridiculous story about mice dressing up to go to a fancy ball. She reads each word painfully slowly, pointing out the letters and sounds as she reads.

I learned how to read a year before, and the mice don't have the most enrapturing lives. The day passes slowly until lunch, when the students are released to play in the courtyard. It's not that I don't like people, it's just that I've never put much of an effort into making friends, and it's not a natural talent of mine. Besides, kids are scared of me. They know my parents and brother are victors of the Hunger Games, and their families have always told them to stay away from me. I suppose they would, when they first saw me playing with knives at the ripe age of three.

By the time lunch is half-over, I've already gotten into fights with two kids. Both are older than me, but they don't stand much of a chance as the under-weight conceited scum they are. In my second fight, a teacher has to drag me away kicking and screeching from the other boy I was fighting with.

She commands me to sit down at the "time-out bench," where the only other student is a blonde-haired, blue-eyed seven-year-old. Even as a seven-year-old, Cato is huge, bigger than most of the eleven-year-olds. He glares at me until he pieces together my bloody knuckles with the two bawling brats on the floor.

It doesn't take long for us to hit on after that.

Next, I'm twelve and he's fourteen. I've already mastered throwing weapons two years ago—I've even managed to excel at using cross-bows, which were tricky for my small hands to deal with. Now Cato's helping me learn real sparring and hand-to-hand combat. Since he's two years older, he's already learned most of the stuff my Career-trainer is teaching me, and he's better at explaining it than her.

He launches a blow at my face. Cato isn't putting his full effort into fighting with me yet, but he's ruthless none the less. I'm too slow, and his fist sends stars shooting into my vision. I stumble back, opening and shutting my jaw to make sure it's still hinged properly.

"Come on, Clove," he taunts, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. "You're becoming soft."

I charge, feigning left then darting right. Cato isn't easily tricked, but he falls for it just this once, and I'm able to get in a few good punches before he swings a kick into the back of my legs and knocks me down. The breath is pushed out of me, and I lie there panting until Cato offers me a hand up.

"Not bad. But you'll have to do better than that."

Flash forward a few years to the reaping. Cato has already told me a few days ago that he wants to volunteer, but it's still shocking to see him standing up and saying he'll replace the grateful and bewildered fourteen-year-old boy on stage. In my shock, all I can think is that I know that boy. I even know his name is John, and that he has a kid brother at home and wouldn't make it two days in the arena. Cato has this idiotic grin on his face.

Preeda, the woman who draws the names in the District Two reaping every year, moves onto the girls' names. She twitters about something frivolous and unimportant. It's difficult to pay attention with Cato up there. Besides, I know the chances are slim of me being chosen. I've never applied for tesserae and this is only my third year being entered. That means my name is only in there three times.

Someone has to have rigged the reaping because my name, the name of a legacy from two victors, is chosen out of a clear glass ball with a couple thousand names, some of which have to be repeated. It's only now that the smug smile on Cato's face vanishes, replaced by a horrified expression.

Now the memory changes again, and I'm dressed in a golden dress that's made out of armor. It's formfitting, and I've noticed that the top has cold plastic implants, making my breasts looks bigger than they actually are. I'm not pretty normally, but somehow my stylists have managed to make me look gorgeous. They haven't tried to play up my girlish features at all; on the contrary, they've done everything to make me look older than I really am. The dark eye shadow on my lids makes my eyes look huge and haunting, and my eyelashes look long and feminine with some mascara. I'm wearing a dark red lipstick and some pale pink brush, as well. One of the stylists has twisted my hair up into a high ponytail and stuck twin knives into it as a sinister reminder of my skills with weapons.

Cato's wearing the same glittering golden armor, but his is sleeveless to show off the rippling muscles in his arms. He flashes a grin at me, and the girl from District One standing in the chariot next to us practically faints. She's beautiful, and I will later learn that her name is Glimmer. I will learn that she and Cato will fool around and flirt a little in the Games, but I will also learn that Cato will choose _me_. He chooses me.

The Hunger Games are my death, but I know some experiences in them are too incredible to go back and undo if I could. Because of them, I was able to ride through the Capitol's crowds side-by-side with Cato, having kisses blown at us and our names chanted over and over again. I was able to put the skills that I have been learning since before I could practically walk to the test. I have learned in first-hand experiences what love and courage are. Even as I lie dying in the sunlight with the Cornucopia glittering beside me, I know that some things are worth dying for.

I'm ready now. Cato had given me the bravery to fight for life, but also the bravery to die. My family will cry back home, but they will heal. Time heals all wounds. And Cato… hopefully, Cato will win the Games and return home as a victor. Maybe someday he'll meet a girl who's good enough for him, and they'll get married and have kids. And maybe he'll name one Clove, after his old childhood friend, fellow tribute, and in the end, lover.

I can let go now.

I don't have enough energy to even keep my eyes open anymore. My head lolls back, uselessly, and my arms hang limp by my sides. All I can do is wait now. I've given it my all, and now it's time for me to finally give up.

Cato's cries almost make me want to return to the fight, to come back. He's sobbing so hard he's shaking me, and then I hear him begin to shout and scream. "Help me! Please, somebody help! Send some medicine, anything…"

His hands caress my face and hair. "This is all my fault, Clove. It should have been me, not you. I can't do this without you. I can't do this without you." His body trembles violently as another fit of sorrow and rage passes through him. "Help me…"

"Cato." I feel my lips mouth the words, but no sound comes out. I want to tell him not to bother, that there's no saving me now. I want to tell him I love him one last time.

"Please! I need some medicine! Don't let her die. I'll do anything, just don't let her die. Please, please…"

I open my eyes. I need to see him one last time. I need to stare into his eyes as I go.

Cato's beautiful eyes sparkle in the sunlight, and I remember his promise to win for me. The light is fading, and the sky seems to darken until it looks like night. His face blurs, separating into two different images.

"It's so dark out," I tell him. I can barely hear my own voice now. Everything seems muffled and distorted.

This is the end. But I have to say goodbye first.

"I love you, Cato."

"I love you, Clove."

Then the darkness surrounds us, and sleep pulls me under.


End file.
